


An Eternity With You

by biscuitlevitation



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Animal Death, Creepy, Creepy Fluff, Multi, is it incest if they're not technically related?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitlevitation/pseuds/biscuitlevitation
Summary: There's something odd about Ib's sister.





	An Eternity With You

Ib loves her sister more than anything. They’ve always, always been together, haven’t they? It’s natural that they love each other more than anyone else. That’s what Mary always says, and Ib has always believed her, and always assures her so when Mary asks, orders, demands that she promise to love her as much as she loves Ib.

Mary loves her sister more than anything. Ib knows, because of how often she tells her. In words, in tight tight hugs, in enthusiastic kisses, in whispers under the covers, when Mary sneaks into her bed late at night.

This is always how it’s been. It’s normal. It’s natural.

So why does she sometimes feel so uneasy?

Their parents think it’s cute. It’s just how Mary has always been, tightly clinging to her sister, while Ib humors her and returns her affections whenever she asks. Of course, it’s a little odd that it’s gone on so long, but Mary has always been childish, always hitting her developmental milestones after Ib does. Their father sometimes jokes that she needs to see a demonstration, first, so that she can see how it’s done.

Mary usually desists, once their parents go from indulgent to insistent, but only in front of them. In private and in public, as long as she’s with Ib, she’ll revert and do as she pleases. Ib loves her the most, after all, so of course she lets her do whatever she likes.

Mary takes advantage of this often. She refuses to let Ib eat hard candy or macarons, and gleefully snatches them from her fingers to pop into her mouth. 

“Ib doesn’t like it,” she’ll claim when scolded, grabbing her sister’s hand once more, and Ib will nod along, suppressing the pangs of loss and longing with a small smile.

Mary is the same about friends, as well. All of Ib’s friends are her friends, and if Ib spends time with another girl without her she’ll cry until Ib apologizes and promises not to do it again. (Boys are, of course, out of the question. Mary hates boys.) A lot of their (never her, always their) friends find this off putting, and usually fall out of contact with them.

“Sorry, Ib,” one girl had said, in one of the rare moments that Mary wasn’t glued to her side. “You seem cool, and all, but it’s a little weird how you and your sister do everything together.”

“It’s not weird,” Ib denies automatically, but her words are perturbing. Are they actually strange? 

She’s even quieter than usual that night, and Mary soon coaxes the story out of her.

“Are we weird?” Ib asks, uncharacteristically hesitant, and her twin envelops her in a hug.

“Of course not. I love you, and you love me. She’s just jealous.” Her thin arms tighten, and her voice curls and blackens like burning paper. “She’s trying to take you away from me.”

After that day, Ib never sees that classmate again. She overhears a few teachers mention an accident of some sort, but Mary drags her away to play before she can hear anything else. For the rest of the day, unease sits in her pocket, right beside her lacy handkerchief.

-

Ib doesn’t like roses. They make her feel melancholy, as if reminding her of a sad, forgotten dream. Mary, however, seeks them out, only to tear off their petals, sometimes in big handfuls. She’s ruined more than one bouquet that way. Once she even tore up their neighbor’s garden. Their parents had grounded her for weeks, even though she insisted that she hadn’t ruined it; she left the pretty yellow ones alone, after all!

Ib likes the color blue. Mary hates it, and always tells her that she looks much prettier in red. Ib listens to her; who knows what she’d do to her clothes if she ever wore it. The one time their mother had bought them matching blue dresses, Mary had cut them to pieces. It was especially strange, considering how much she typically enjoyed matching with her sister.

Ib doesn’t like drawing. She’s got no talent and no patience for it. Mary is very enthusiastic about it, even though she will clearly never be an artist. She is very understanding of Ib’s dislike for the hobby, and often tells her that she doesn’t need any drawings other than Mary’s.

Ib loves bunnies. Mary used to, as well. They got one as a pet, for their eleventh birthday, and Mary had let her name it.

“Garry,” Ib decided. It’s her favorite name, other than Mary.

“No,” Mary suddenly snapped. “Not that one. Choose something else.”

Ib loves her sister more than anything, and for anything else, she would gladly oblige. But Garry is special. She refuses, and the two get into their first ever fight. When they go to sleep, Mary doesn’t even sneak in to snuggle with her, but Ib is too angry to care.

The next morning, Ib finds Garry’s hutch empty, with the gate left open. She cries and screams and searches for hours, Mary right beside her.

She doesn’t ever notice the freshly turned pile of dirt hidden under their neighbor’s yellow rose bush.

That evening, Mary doesn’t even pretend to go to sleep in her bed. She holds her sobbing twin close, crying almost as hard, whispering, “I’m sorry, Ib, I liked him too, I miss him too, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

Ib hates art galleries. So does Mary. Their father and mother have long since given up on changing their minds, even though they claim that Ib used to love them. Mary always insists that they’re just making that up.

-

They’re fifteen when Ib first suspects that Mary’s love for her isn’t exactly sisterly in nature. 

While other kids their age and younger are starting to date, the two of them are as wrapped up in each other as ever. Ib doesn’t mind (she loves her sister the most, after all). She feels like no boyfriend or girlfriend could measure up to her dreams, anyway, where someone special holds her hand and protects her.

She asks Mary if she has someone she likes, once, out of idle curiosity. 

“I like you, Ib!” Mary chirps, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she drags a brush through Ib’s long, straight tresses. She loves doing Ib’s hair and dressing her up. She often claims that Ib is better than any doll.

“I mean someone special.”

Mary cocks her head, confused. “But you _are_ someone special.”

Ib smiles, shakes her head. “Never mind.”

Mary tsks at her, and Ib stills obediently, sending her an apologetic glance in the mirror. Mary doesn’t notice, too busy separating her hair into sections and starting to braid. Ib’s eyes close at the gentle tugging, soothed into a stupor by the pleasant sensation and her sister’s soft humming. Once the braid is finished and fastened, Mary coils it around her head, pushing in hairpins to keep it in place.

A pause, and then something cool against her forehead, sweeping back some of her bangs. A click. Ib opens her eyes.

“Do you like it?” Mary asks excitedly, bouncing on her heels. On the side of Ib’s head is a golden hairpin, shaped like a rose in full bloom.

Ib does not like roses, but she loves her sister.

“It’s pretty,” Ib says, and it is. The workmanship is intricate, and the metal catches the eye, small enough not to be gaudy but beautiful all the same. Mary must have saved for over a month, and it is her sister’s affection, not the gift itself, that makes her smile. “Thank you. I love you, Mary.”

Mary touches her bangs once more, before fisting her hand in them and pulling, not hard enough to hurt but enough that it will be uncomfortable if Ib doesn’t move her head. She doesn’t stop until Ib’s neck is craned uncomfortably, and she can see her face. Ib blinks her large wine-red eyes inquisitively, even as Mary pets her hair back into place.

“Does Ib have someone special?” Mary asks, tone deceptively light. “More special than Mary?”

Ib thinks of a large, warm hand in her own, a kind voice without words, and answers, “Can’t remember.”

Mary frowns. “It should be me. I’m real, I’m here, I’m with you, I’m _real_ , why isn’t it _me_ , Ib?!” She curls her slim fingers around Ib’s throat, just tight enough to be uncomfortable, tensing and relaxing rhythmically.

“We’re sisters,” Ib points out, troubled but trusting. Mary loves her the most in the world, after all. “We can’t be special like that.”

“Who cares?” Mary asks, childlike and confused. Her eyes fill with tears, and for a moment Ib feels a flash of phantom heat on her skin, thinks of a lighter. “Why can’t you love me as much as I love you?” Her fingers tighten enough that Ib starts to wheeze. “It’s because of _him_ , isn’t it?! You always loved him more! You never gave me the same chance you gave him and that’s why I had to get rid of him! I wanted to be his friend, too! But I couldn’t let him keep you!” 

She hiccups and starts to sob. Tears fall from her cheeks to Ib’s, and Ib reaches up and caresses her face. Mary goes still, the fingers around her sister’s neck going slack.

“I’m sorry,” Ib whispers. “I don’t remember. I love you, Mary. I love you the most.”

Mary hiccups again, and smiles tremulously. “You don’t. But that’s okay.” She leans down, and brushes soft pink lips against Ib’s own. “I have forever to change it.” Another kiss. “I don’t need to worry.” And another. “Because _I’m real._ ” Once more.

“ _And he’s not._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Idk wtf that was. I wanted fluff and creepy shit and so I wrote fluff and creepy shit. 
> 
> I have a love/hate relationship with Mary. She's an emotionally disturbed, love-starved little girl, but she's also a creepy murder painting. I wanted to see how she'd fare after the Together Forever ending, as the real world is probably not as happy as she thought, but I ended up including almost nothing about that. Whoops.
> 
> I'm not sure that Ib _or_ Mary really know what love is. Maybe they can learn together?


End file.
